Scars
by LemmingtonLee
Summary: Arthur still feels guity for what he did to Lancelot. How can he make him understand how he feels, when it all happened so very long ago...


Scars 

_A/N: I do not own King Arthur, or related characters used in this story._

_I love the relationship between Arthur and Lancelot portrayed in the film, and think they are both interesting characters. I just wanted to create some history, something that could have happened before the film, when they were both a bit younger._

_This is dedicated to Nargisse. I hope you enjoy it! Thanks go out to all the other authors who have inspired me with including Ivory Novelist! Keep it up!!!_

Arthur continued to gently bathe Lancelot's back, cleaning the many cuts the knight had acquired from their recent ambush.

Lancelot winced slightly, trying to ignore the painful stinging eating at him.

'Damn those Woads. Came out of nowhere...' he mumbled, more to himself than anything, in an attempt to distract himself.

Which was just as well, as his comments hung in the air, not even returned with a grunt of acknowledgement from his best friend.

Arthur continued to wash Lancelot distractedly, lost in his own thoughts. He began tracing patterns on the knight's back, his job already done.

He hated seeing it. The scar. But he couldn't miss it-it ran right from the top of Lancelot's shoulder, almost to his hip.

Taking a shuddering breath, he closed his eyes, a lump forming slowly in the back of his throat.

Lancelot meanwhile was beginning to wonder why Arthur hadn't stopped, but he wasn't going to complain. He felt his eyelids grow heavy, and exhaustion began to overtake him. The knight's gently circling fingertips soothed him, and he felt his muscles relax.

Arthur felt the knight becoming listless, his head lolling slightly, the room now hushed and free from Lancelot's mumblings. He opened his eyes. He had to do it, he had waited years to do it.

He found the strip of raised skin he was looking for, and ran his fingers along it. He felt Lancelot shiver slightly and had a feeling that somehow, subconsciously the knight knew what was coming.

He started to run his fingers faster and faster, steadily applying more and more pressure. Consumed by years of guilt he started to jab his fingers deep into Lancelot's back, almost clawing at the flesh. Hot angry tears filled his eyes, and as he heard the knight's small yelp of pain as he jerked awake, he also felt the tears running freely down his cheeks.

He threw his arms round Lancelot's waist, and buried his head into his raw, bleeding back.

'I'm sorry,' he gasped. 'I'm so sorry.'

The younger knight clasped his best friend's worn and calloused hands into his own, and held them close to him. He knew that Arthur had never forgiven himself for what had happened, but had never known why, for it had been an accident.

He was suddenly transported back to the day. The rain was beating down, the air thick with blood and sweat, and the smell of their near-victory beginning to linger in the mist.

The battle had withered down to just a few soldiers now, and it was Arthur and Lancelot fighting, almost back-to-back, fending off the half a dozen or so men left surrounding them.

They fought almost as one, using each other to their own advantage in a way that only came from years and years of fighting together as more than friends- brothers.

Arms, legs, swords, all flowing, in an unspoken trust and connection that had grown between them; one which now seemed to allow one to anticipate the other's move, sometimes moments before they had concocted it for themselves.

As skilled as the other knights were, they could never hope for that level of perfection, and often found themselves sneaking a few fleeting glances of the pair, almost as a sort of encouragement.

Swords continued to slash, as the rain began to beat down on them with a renewed fervour. Four more soldiers left now, and as exhausted as they were, Arthur and Lancelot couldn't help but smile at each other as the fight became easier; they could sense the enemy weakening and becoming increasingly more predictable.

But the enemy, realising that they had no upper-hand in technique or strength were not about to give up, and in a quick, desperate action one soldier flung himself into Arthur's unprotected side, in an attempt to knock him over, or at least disturb his momentum somehow.

The action didn't have quite the effect intended, but it worked. Arthur stumbled, but his strength didn't falter. Instead of his sword meeting it's target, it sliced through the air briefly, before slicing someone it was never intended to hurt.

It was too late, he had swung with all his might, and it was with horror that he watched as Lancelot stumbled, stunned and afraid, before falling to the ground.

The enemy, knowing this was their only escape fled, leaving a distraught Arthur to comfort his wounded knight. He bent down by a pale and shivering Lancelot, and grasped his hand, trying to ignore the pained look in his dark eyes, knowing it was all his fault...

In the growing darkness of dusk fading into night, Arthur winced as he too relived that memory; as he thought how it was his sword, the one he could still feel coldly resting against his leg, that had slashed through his most loyal knight, leaving him with an ugly scar, and painful memories.

Lancelot rocked back and forth, hushing the man who lay against sobbing into his wounds (A/N: ouch!)

'I'm sorry...' He repeated one last time, squeezing Lancelot's hand as his words trailed off into the dark.

It was those two words, though whispered, that suddenly held more weight than if they had been shouted by a thousand men.

And Lancelot finally understood.

_A/N: well there you go! This is just a first draft, maybe it would have been better slashy, but I think being a friendship fic makes it more realistic. I don't know though. All feedback would be greatly appreciated as this is my first complete fic._

No flaming please, but I'd love to hear any comments or suggestions anyone may have.


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